


Home

by Ma_Kir



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, Polyamory, Post-The Mandalorian Episode 4: Sanctuary, Reunions, Sorgan, This Is The Way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21711472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ma_Kir/pseuds/Ma_Kir
Summary: A few years later, The Mandalorian and The Child return to Sorgan where they meet old allies, and see just how far they have grown. It's there, in the krill farmer village, that perhaps The Mandalorian finds another way.
Relationships: Cara Dune & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/Omera (Star Wars), The Mandalorian & Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

"He ... hasn't grown a bit." Cara Dune says as she watches the Child waddling towards Winta, dancing with her and the other children.   
  
"No."  
  
Cara laughs, leaning at the door sill of Omera's home. She and the villagers had seen the ship land. They were going to greet it, like they had some of the other bounty hunters that tracked the last fool that came here, the one she shot when he tried to kill the Child, when he attempted to assassinate the Mando like a cowardly piece of ossik. It was that, or the ship was some reinforcements for what was left of the Klatooinian raiders in the woods. They'd never seen the gunship before. Last she saw of the Mando and the Child, they'd been on that wagon going off to parts unknown. 

"I can see you. Watching him like a hawkbat." The former shock trooper says.   
  
The Mandalorian inclines his head, his helmet metallic, inscrutable. Cara smiles wryly. "Your HUD. Watching him from your graphics display under your helmet." He gives her a silent look. 'What? Clone troopers wore them. They came from Mandos, right? I did some reading. That's not the only thing from the Clone Wars." She points in the direction of his landed ship. "That ship of yours ..."  
  
"The Razor Crest."   
  
"Nice name. Yeah, that looks pre-Empire easily." She can't help but be amused by him. Cara knows what he's capable of. In the beginning, that "man of few words" shtick had been annoying, if not pragmatic, but now she suspects it comes from a lifetime of a lack of socializing. Not that she did a lot of it herself, but at least back in the day she had her fellow shock troopers, her Rebel family to banter with on missions. She's not sure the Mando even knows what the word means. Banter. "Nice name for it, though. You outfitted it pretty good. Only looks like an old patrol ship now. Reminds me of the drop ships we used to use against the Imps." She pauses, trying to read him and his body language through that armour. "Omera's coming back soon. She just had some last minute things to tell the others at the border."   
  
The Mandalorian nods, but Cara sees that split second of hesitation. It might as well have lasted a thousand years. "How is she?"  
  
"She's doing fine." Cara allows herself a softer smile. "After the battle, people really saw her marksmanship. Impressive work. Winta's grown up like a reed. Almost looks like her Mom now. Sounds like her too. She wants her to teach her how to shoot. Keeps on putting her off, even though I think she's at that age where she should know." She shakes her head as the Child attempts to eat a krill raw, watching it wriggle down his mouth to the cheers, and joy of the other children. "Never really listens to me, though. But what do I know."  
  
"Cara? What ..."  
  
She walks towards them, through the throng of villagers and children. The village has grown since they stopped the raiders, trade with the other settlements becoming much easier. And Omera's made it possible. There is a little streak of silver through her long, smooth dark hair now. And Cara also knows, from personal experience, that you had to look closely at her face to see the deeper laugh lines around the corners of her mouth, and eyes. Then, she looks at Winta playing the Child. Cara doesn't need a HUD to see her eyes widen as she looks up ... and sees them.   
  
Cara sees the Mandalorian shift. It's almost imperceptible, but she didn't survive this long from a lack of observation. Omera and the Mando regard each other like they are separated by par secs instead of meters apart.   
  
"Hey." The Mando says, his voice muffled by his helmet, gruff, seemingly distant.  
  
"Hello." Omera replies as she walks towards them, coming to Cara's side. "You've come back."  
  
"Yeah." His head is angled away slightly.   
  
"You ... you have to stay for dinner, at least." Omera says. Cara isn't sure if the Mando is listening to some communication device, watching a scanner, or it's that unspoken thing from when the two of them had been together. He's quiet. Cara looks, and sees the Child. His large dark eyes are looking right in their direction, staring right at the Mando as Winta carries him. He's holding up his hand.   
  
"I insist." Omera has that familiar, steadfast expression on her face. It's the same one when she puts down her foot with Winta's antics, or when settling a dispute with the other villagers, or aiming her blaster rifle at a bunch of raiders with a modified AT-ST.   
  
"Yeah." Cara adds, putting an arm around Omera's shoulders. "You don't have to worry about safety here."  
  
It's a stupid thing to say. Nowhere's really safe in the Galaxy. You can't have to be a former Rebel shocktrooper or mercenary or bounty hunter to know that truth. But they've built a good life here. And once that fob was crushed by the Mando, there were very few visitors after, or who cooperated with each other enough to be an issue. Besides, Cara reads enough of the situation to realize that the Mando was outvoted in this a long time ago, before he ever came back here.   
  
She can almost hear him sigh in his armour, especially with the look the Child's giving him, as he turns to them. "Okay." He says.  
  
"Good." Omera leans into Cara, and they exchange a kiss. "I'm going to prepare the krill. Come on, Winta!" She calls out, leaving her wife's side, waving at her daughter. "We have company!"  
  
Cara watches her wife go bravely into the throng of children and get Winta, and the Child. They're laughing, but she can feel Omera looking back to the two of them with that sharp marksman's gaze. And she can feel the Mando regarding the both of them as well with something similar. She almost shakes her head. It isn't nerves. It's been years, and a lot has happened. The Mando had his chance, and she took hers, when she realized she had one. It isn't anger or jealousy. It just is.   
  
"C'mon." She says, finally, clapping the Mando on the armoured shoulder. "I'm hungry. Let's go eat." 


	2. Chapter 2

They sit around the table talking, and laughing.  
  
Most of them do anyway.   
  
The Mandalorian watches the Child try to drink Jawa Juice. He splutters a bit as Winta giggles at him. Cara and Omera converse about their day over fried krill. Cara clasps Omera's hand on the table, her worn fingers rubbing Omera's own. Both of them have been calloused: one more by blaster fire, and the other by farm work: though he suspects the distinctions are finer to the point of becoming non-existent. It is a larger place now. He notices they've expanded the dwelling place into a house. The shed still exists, but he can tell there are more rooms. The place looks more worn, as though it's had many visitors since he was last here. It feels centralized. Like a meeting spot. Like a home.   
  
Like home.

The former mercenary has taken off her armour. It's well maintained, in the corner, but she wears the same cloth that Omera and the villagers garb themselves. He can imagine it's hard to farm krill in the fresh water, and pull weeds in heavy armour, though he detects some weave underneath her shirt and pants. She still carries a blaster nearby, on her person. She is more relaxed, but not lazy. It also doesn't escape his notice that Omera's rifle is not that faraway as well, and that it's fully charged. Their home is warm, and comfortable but it still retains the practicality of defense, and the provision of dealing with another raid. 

"You can stay here with us, for as long as you need." Omera says, catching his attention from his observations. 

He nods, slowly. He's glad, yet again, that he hasn't taken off his helmet. Others might find it awkward that he is the only one here who hasn't gotten into anything more comfortable, or even eaten but this just how it has to be. This what he pledged himself to so many years ago, when meaning had been restored to his life. It also helps that no one can see his facial features, or expressions. It's harder to read him, and he likes it that way. It makes negotiating easier, along with intimidation. And unless someone has something like the Force, a fact that makes him _not_ meet the Child's eyes this time, no one can ever really know what he's thinking. Or feeling.   
  
"Thank you." He says, and he means it. "But we can't --"  
  
"Please, sir." Winta adds, looking at both Cara and Omera. "I've missed him so much. Can't he stay just a bit longer?"   
  
"It's already late." Omera says, her voice steady, a smile playing at her lips as she looks at him. "You've come all this way. Another day won't hurt, will it?"  
  
The Child looks up at him, and also smiles. It's similar to that look he first gave him, years ago, when he began to mess around with the controls of the Razor Crest, and when he took the knob off that dial. He really should have none of it. In the end, those actions -- as annoying as they were -- caused him so much trouble: trouble that the two of them are still dealing with to this very day, the same trouble being the reason why they can't stay here for very long. But that earnestness, that seemingly guileless baby grin, and the way those large pale green ears are perking up. The last time he saw him like this was when he considered leaving him here, on this planet, in this village, with these good people, with Omera ...  
  
"All right." He agrees, his tone flat but not unfriendly. It's just a statement of fact. "We'll stay the night."  
  
"Yeah." Cara says, grinning. "Well, you won't have to be in the shed this time. Made some additions since last you were here. You get your own room, Mando."  
  
"He can stay with me!" Winta points at the Child. "Please, Mom." She looks at both women.   
  
Cara gives Omera a knowing look. Omera shakes her head, seemingly exasperated, but again the Mandalorian sees the quirk of her lips. She looks to him. "Is that all right?"  
  
The Mandalorian also wants to shake his head. The Child is older now, has more control of ... whatever it is he's able to do. He's able to read him like a datapad, which drives him a little barvy, he won't lie. But he's still nowhere near where he needs to be in order to become fully independent. The Child still needs him. He still needs him.   
  
"You know we got this, right?" Cara says, arching an eyebrow. "Just like last time."  
  
He hasn't forgotten. If she hadn't been there, when the Child was playing with Winta and the others, when he and Omera had ... that moment years ago, none of their misadventures would have happened. And none of this would be happening right now. He nods, not saying anything else. He sees Winta's bright grin as she picks the Child up and dances with him a little more. She needs to be more careful. Not so much for the Child's sake, but for hers. He remembers what happened to the mudhorn. And the others. But the Child is cooing, and cackling. Sometimes, the Mandalorian thinks that it should remind him of something, but it's hard to really put his finger on it. He suspects that if this thought is important, he will remember it. One day.   
  
Maybe it's something else entirely. Maybe it's just Winta's reaction to the Child. She could easily be wearing red garb, in the sunlight, around the shining buildings, with her parents laughing, without a care in the world, until B2 super battle droids ...   
  
"Time to wash up. C'mon you two!"  
  
The two children leave the table, and go to their room. _Their room ..._ He wants to shake his head at that errant thought, better than the ones he was having not too long ago.   
  
"You two can sit on the porch, if you want." Omera says. "I can clean up here."  
  
"You sure?" Cara asks, looking over at her.   
  
"Yes." Omera kisses Cara on the lips, who returns it. "Remember, I've been at this a long time. We can't all just eat at cantinas, or on a ship."  
  
"Oh c'mon." Cara rolls her eyes. "I haven't done that in ... Heh." She chuckles, even as Omera smirks at her. "Yeah. We'll be in soon."  
  
"Take your time." Omera says. She gets up, and looks at the Mandalorian. There is a faraway, almost wistful look in her eyes that doesn't escape him. "It's really good to see you again. Both of you."  
  
He doesn't know what to say, or feel. He looks at the two women. He recalls that time in the grass, that moment when Omera had her hands on his helmet, when she was going to lift it up, when he was going to let ... But he made his choice. He made it long ago. And he had his chance. "Thank you." He tells her.   
  
She smiles, looking down for a bit, smiling softly. Cara hugs her. The Mandalorian watches, before Cara comes to his side, and points to the door. "Let's get some air after that meal, huh?"  
  
Then she remembers he didn't eat a thing, and shakes her head. "You know, the leftovers you'll be having later. In your room. Not in that _beskar'gam_. That's what you call it, right?"  
  
The Mandalorian feels himself smirk under his helmet. "Yeah." He replies, seeing Omera bustling behind them, trying not to look at her as she works. "I'm sure it will be good." 


	3. Chapter 3

The Mandalorian and Cara Dune sit on rocking chairs outside the porch. 

It's a surreal thing, if the Mandalorian thinks about it too much. The two of them are a part of professions where they are usually running, or on the run. Now, they are just sitting still, moving back and forth on old wooden chairs.  
  
"We got married over a year in." Cara says, drinking her cup of caf that she brought out with her. "Have to admit, I didn't really see it coming."

"Why's that?" The Mandalorian looks out at the high walls and constructs of the village, becoming something of a small principality, even a settlement of some size. One day, it could become a city. Even so, he sees the trees. They still stretch out, and outward, threatening to swallow everything around it, into it, whole. All this wilderness around one small, but growing bubble of civility.   
  
Cara shrugs. "Never figured I would. I just wasn't the type. I mean." She sips at her cup. The Mandalorian can smell the caf combined with Blue Milk, prepared for her by Omera herself. They really have built up trade in the settlements, and gained more profit for themselves since the last time he was here. "Between the bounties on my head during my merc days, and the Republic coming for my shlebs for some of the other stuff I did going AWOL, I just never thought I'd have the time, or the patience for somebody else. But Omera's a whole other thing entirely."  
  
"Yeah." The Mandalorian thinks back to when she blasted the raiders down with pinpoint precision behind the smaller wall, the one that no exists by the stream. "She is."   
  
"I got the credits." Cara continues. "I was going to leave, go somewhere deeper in Sorgan. But I just wanted to make sure. I know you crushed that tracking hob, but there would be more of them. More of those kriffers. And there were. Ah." She waves her hand at him. "Like I said, we got it. You don't have to feel bad about it. None of us were going to turn you in, or tell them anything. Had to take care of some Klatooinians that thought they could make a quick credit, or get some salvage from the hunters, but it was easy. Wish most of my old missions went that way. I'd bet you do too."  
  
The Mandalorian doesn't say anything, but merely inclines his head, listening to the former mercenary.   
  
"Fierfek, Mando." She says, after a while. "You know how she handles a blaster. She gave as good as she got to the hunters, and the raiders. They just don't learn. She does, though. And she taught the others. And I helped. I got used to the krill here. They're not just for making spotchka, you know." Cara pats her stomach. "She cooks a mean one. I kept thinking I'd go. But credits, yeah. They'd get all right rations in the cantinas, but not like Omera's cooking. And ... I don't know. It felt good to help these guys here. I sometimes think you almost could've felt it too. That's way you left, wasn't it? Why you were going to leave the kid here." She turns to look at him. "That's one of the reasons anyway."  
  
The Mandalorian doesn't reply as he meets Cara's gaze through his visor, not piercing or confrontational, but trying to see what she is getting at.   
  
Cara sighs, and turns away, sipping her drink. "She wanted you to stay."  
  
"I know."  
  
He had been tempted. He won't lie to himself. She had made him food. They had talked a bit about himself. About The Way. He did see how she shot. He saw her utter devotion to that child, to Winta, and even to the Child himself. She respected his space, but she offered her own. He recalls her hands on his helmet, and even though he might have died that day, he almost wishes he could have let her ...  
  
"You said to me, that if you took off that armour," Cara says, "you would've never put it back on again. I kind of understood. I was the same, or close enough. I'm no Mando, of course. But when you've fought as much as we have, you don't generally put that out of you so easily. But ... some places in the galaxy, you have these ladies, called battle-wives. They cook, they sew, they put things together, and they fight. Omera saw a lot of shavit here. She lost her husband years ago, raised a girl on her own, and kept fighting those raiders. She gets it. You gave up something that day, Mando. Something really special."  
  
The Mandalorian thinks about Omera and how she treats her daughter, and thinks about a young boy in red with his parents shielding him from battle droids, hiding him away. He remembers the kindness in his mother's face. He thinks about how she and his father fought the droids, just as he and Omera and all the others fought he raiders. But they survived. The children still remain with their parents. He can still feel her hand on his helmet, even though it had been nowhere near skin.   
  
"It wasn't for me." He says, repeating himself from that time.   
  
"And now?"   
  
He pauses. "She's happy." He says, simply. "That's all that matters to me."   
  
The Mandalorian feels Cara Dune's eyes on him, and the annoyed expression on her face. Then she grunts. "Just why did you come back here, Mando?"  
  
He doesn't know what to say, but tries not to look back in the house at his own ... annoyance. Slowly, realization begins to dawn on Cara as she chuckles. "Oh. Oh I get it. It was the kid, wasn't it."  
  
The Mandalorian still doesn't say anything. Cara continues to laugh, this time a lot more loudly. "Oh Mando. That kid's got you good."  
  
"He said the krill was good here." The Mandalorian finally replies, grudgingly. "He wouldn't let up about it. After he started talking, he just didn't stop."  
  
"Welcome to parenthood." Cara leans back in her chair. "You're lucky, you know. That you have him."   
  
The Mandalorian thinks about for a few moments, over everything they've gone through together, all the things he's done, and been because of that Child. "Yeah." He says, after a time. "I guess I am."  
  
"Mando." Cara shakes her head. "Mando, listen to me." This time, she sits up, and her square jaw is set. Her eyes are serious. "Not going to repeat myself. I'm not blind. I saw Omera. She ... really likes you. A lot. We've been good. She's been good to me, and I've done my best for her. I'd blast anyone as soon as let anything happen to her daughter. I'm just going to say ..." She shakes her head. "Damn. Right. You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? If you want to spend time with us, with her, it's okay with me."  
  
The Mandalorian looks up. He blinks behind his visor. "I don't understand."  
  
"Mando, we've been around, you and I. I had squad mates. I went into battles, all the time against the Imps during their rule, and their petty little fiefs after. Lot of the times, we didn't come back, just like many of our pilots. So no." She points at him. "I know you could go too, especially with what you've got. But that's no excuse. And she wouldn't accept that either. We don't know how much time any of us has." She sighs, slowly. "I'm just saying, you want to have time with Omera, and she's all right with that, so am I."   
  
"But ..." The Mandalorian is at a loss for words. "You are her wife."  
  
"Yeah." Cara Dune says. "But I don't own her. Goes without saying that Omera's her own person."  
  
The Mandalorian doesn't know what to say to that. There are a few emotions, writhing in his stomach. This is a lot to process.   
  
"Hey." Cara says, breaking the silence. "I'm just saying. We have our time. Our whole lives. Life with her is great. And all I'm saying is ..." She sighs, looking at the cup in her hands. "I want her to be happy too." She looks over at him. "Just think about it, all right?"   
  
The former mercenary downs the rest of her caf. "I'll ask her to make some of this for you. It's delicious. You know, Mando." She looks at him. "Whatever happens. You don't have to be alone. Even if you need to leave again. Just think about that too. All right? From one old soldier to another."  
  
"Thanks." The Mandalorian replies, and he means it.   
  
Cara seems to recognize that and pats him on the leg. "Anytime. Time to go to bed anyway. Busy day tomorrow. Have to do some more construction." Her face scrunches up. "Want something done right around here, you have to do it yourself. And I think you're going to want some food and sleep. Especially with that kid. Who knows what else he's going to get you into."  
  
"Yeah." The Mandalorian says as they both get up. "Tell me about it."   
  
"Hey, I was wondering." Cara Dune says as she opens the door. "After all this time, did you ever get that jetpack?"  
  
The Mandalorian smiles under his helmet as he replies, the door closing behind them, leaving him with much to think about. 


	4. Chapter 4

They've been here a few days, more time than the Mandalorian thought, or believed they would be safe in doing.  
  
Sometimes, he joins Cara on patrol near the woods. There aren't as many raiders these days, apparently, though given how they had destroyed their AT-ST a few years back, it makes sense. The villagers are getting used to him and The Child again. Other times, they're invited into their homes. The Child generally goes with Winta and the others. The Mandalorian accepts the invitations as best he can, but he's still not particularly sociable unless he is there for a task. Even so, he comes along at times if only to watch The Child: whom almost always wants to visit. 

One thing the Mandalorian has been doing is helping with Omera's blaster drills. The settlement may be doing far better than it once did, with even their solitary long-limbed droid having refurbishments and company, but they've learned their lesson from all those years of pillaging and fear. He can tell that they never want to be back in that place again. He tries not to recall that night with the raiders and transpose it during a day on another world, in another life time, when it had been an army of droids instead.

"Maybe you can talk to her."   
  
The Mandalorian and Winta walk back to the house. The Child toddles after them as they keep up a low pace. He looks up, back to one and the other. The Mandalorian himself slowly shakes his head.   
  
"She's not going to listen. You need to stick to the breathing exercises."

"I've been doing them!" Winta insists, not stomping her foot down as they are walking, and also because she is a woman now -- as she keeps repeating. "And getting used to lying in the dirt, and behind the wall."  
  
The Mandalorian wonders how much of this routine is Omera's, or Cara's. The last part seems to be an addition from the former shock trooper, but he isn't sure. Omera is a tough woman, for all of her gentleness -- maybe even _because_ of it. He's never asked her, for instance, what happened to her husband. He always assumed the man died during one of those attacks. Perhaps he was the one who trained her how to fight. Or maybe she was the one who trained him. He regards Omera's daughter. She's still much shorter than he, but she has grown like the reed to which Cara has compared her. He remembers her curiosity, and then the fear in her eyes when he almost shot her out of pure reflex back in the shed so many years ago. Those two traits, fear and curiosity, have sharpened into a fierce determination. There is still compassion there, and gentleness. She wouldn't love spending time with The Child otherwise, though, who doesn't?   
  
Well ... aside from those that want him for their experiments, or to just outright kill him. The Mandalorian doesn't forget why they came here, back then. He also doesn't forget why they left.  
  
"Mud gets cold." Winta continues, oblivious to his thoughts. "But I can deal with it. I just need to shoot something besides toys!"  
  
The Mandalorian almost misses the days where she was too intimidated to talk to him, along with everyone else, even if she did stare at him. Even if she did try to spy on him when she thought he couldn't see her. This went on for a few days so far. He really knows he and The Child should be leaving, but the latter just isn't cooperative. Sometimes he wonders if he's using some kind of old Jedi mind trick on him, if he didn't know any better.   
  
"I know you're getting other kinds of training." The Mandalorian tries again.  
  
The young girl sighs. "Yeah. Mom lets Cara teach me grappling. Some martial arts. I mean, I wouldn't mind if you showed me something too. But I really want to learn how to use a rifle properly."  
  
"And you think, if Cara couldn't get your Mom to teach you, I can do it?"  
  
Winta gives him a look. It's strange how a young girl thinks she can see through an entire suit of beskar'gam into the mind and heart of another, older, experienced individual with such surety. She'd only complete that image if she had her hands on her hips. He decides not to wait for that phase of this petulance. "I'll talk with her." He allows. "But I don't make promises."   
  
_That isn't true._ A voice in his head says, but he ignores it. It's more like, he doesn't make agreements or vows lightly.   
  
They get back to the house just as Cara is coming out. She's dressed in her old armour again. The Mandalorian has to admit, as comfortable and softer as she looked in the garb of the villagers, she looks a lot more herself in her mercenary kit. She's deadly either way, but it just builds a more complete picture of Cara Dune in his mind. Winta goes over to her, and points back at him. "He's going to talk to Mom."  
  
"And what am I? Chopped bantha poodo?" But Cara's smiling wryly, ruffling the girl's hair. "Tell you what, Winta. I won't show you how to shoot a blaster, but we can do another round of guard patrol. We have to keep Caben, Stoke, and those other slackers on their toes. Who knows what trouble they'll get to without those surprise inspections."   
  
The former mercenary gives him a shrug, grinning at him. "We'll be a while." She says. "I hear they've taken some chocolate from one of the traders. We might need the kid along to deal with the situation."  
  
The Child looks up at the Mandalorian. He blinks his large, black eyes once, with complete and utter innocence.   
  
"All right." He says gruffly. "Off you go."   
  
_Just don't get him sick,_ the Mandalorian is about to say, but thinks better of it as Cara and the others walk the opposite way. He wonders, again, just how it is that he got into this situation at all as he walks back to the house.   
  
He hesitates near the porch, and then decides to go to the shed instead. It has some of his equipment in there. Ever since they'd been gone, the couple had expanded their lodgings and structures so much they didn't really need the small building anymore. Now it's mostly for storage. The Mandalorian thinks about jury-rigging a few pieces of the tech he has in there as he opens the door, pondering about this day's events.  
  
"Hello."  
  
Omera is sitting in the shed on an old stool. The Mandalorian inwardly curses himself. He should have paid more attention. While his HUD has infra-red, he needs to actively focus on it, and his mind has been elsewhere. It's one more reason they shouldn't be here. It could have been anyone else, any number of bounty hunters, agents, or assassins -- any freelancer with a weapon -- waiting here. He could be dead, or Winta or Omera could be a hostage ...  
  
"They've gone to the patrol the border." The Mandalorian says instead, keeping to the matter at hand. "That's what they call it anyway."   
  
Omera smiles. There is fondness and amusement in that expression. "Yes. They do that from time to time."   
  
The Mandalorian stares at her for a few moments. He figures, to himself, that if anyone of these villagers could get the drop on him -- or even surprise him -- it would be Omera. At least he didn't pull his blaster on her too. "I'm guessing," he says, "that they both want me to talk to you about Winta. Getting blaster training."  
  
"Oh." Omera's brow furrows, the corners of her lips pursing. "I already agreed to do that."  
  
The Mandalorian blinks behind his visor, but somehow even though he knows she can't see his face, that she's never seen it, he feels like his helmet is as opaque as Transparisteel. He inclines his head. There is an apologetic look on Omera's face, but it doesn't match the light glittering in her dark eyes. It takes him another moment to realize that she is silently laughing at his confusion. "All right." He says. "Then why did she ask me?"  
  
"And why did they go out on patrol with your child?" She shakes her head. Her hair is still long and smooth, black with that silvery streak through it. The Mandalorian tries not to focus on it so much. "Because we haven't really had a lot of time to ourselves. To talk. Because." She chuckles. "Because they are meddlers. All of them."   
  
The Mandalorian sighs. Then, he realizes he is sighing. He knew it. It's one thing that Winta's impish or Cara is generally amused at his expense, but that Child. Every time. He's annoyed. The Child should know better. He doesn't know _how_ he should know better, but he _should_. Maybe when he's older, about a hundred, he might. But the Mandalorian's still not banking on it. Omera pats a stool next to her. "Please. Sit me. Okay?"  
  
He knows that he ... whatever thoughts or concerns he's having are irrelevant. He comes over to her, and sits down right next to her, facing her. There isn't as much distance between them in this small shack. 

It's been years since that time they were alone, together, before leaving on that wagon pulled by the droid. Now that he's here, Omera looks down a bit. Suddenly, she's demure and quiet again like she was back then. But then, her eyes somehow -- through all his armour and his walls -- meet his. Just like they did before.   
  
"You told me," she says, trying to recall the words, her brow furrowing, choosing them with obvious care, "that only your child belonged here."   
  
"Yes." The Mandalorian replies, remembering the conversation as if it were just yesterday.   
  
"I know why." Omera says, her eyes searching for ... something on the face he knows she can't see, but somehow she can reach it. "You told me about what you lost. And what you gained."  
  
The Mandalorian doesn't say anything, but can see she still has more to say.  
  
"Cara and I talked about that." Omera says, rubbing at her upper-arm, nervous but grounding herself. "Sometimes, at night, she wakes up. In a panic. Reaching for a blaster. She told me about some of the things she did when she worked for the Republic. For the Rebellion before it. She fought. She fought for so long. She fought for so long that that's all she ever knew. Guarding people, and politicians, wasn't enough for her. She fought for her friends. Her comrades. Someone in her squad, in her dropship, in her bed ... they could all be gone the next day. I don't know much about the Inner Rim or the Core, but the Republic ... she didn't think it was worth it anymore. She didn't have a purpose. But she thought ... and I guess she believed she invested all that violence, and had all that blood on her hands that there wasn't really anything else she could do. Or anyone else she could turn to." Omera shakes her head a little more vigorously. "I can imagine a little bit of it. But that is such a difficult life."  
  
"I think you can imagine a lot more." The Mandalorian points out, not unkindly.  
  
"This?" Omera gestures around. "Cara said something like that too. The raiders coming for our spotchka is one thing ..."  
  
"No." The Mandalorian says, not wanting to interrupt her but he can't help himself. "It's been your people's _everything_. For several generations. You ... you fought to keep this place. And ..." He looks down. "You made it so much better."  
  
"It's all we could do." She says, softly.  
  
"No. You chose to do it." He says. "You chose to stay and fight. We wanted you to leave, but you didn't. And you fought hardest of all, Omera." He feels the words, the ones he didn't say but felt when he saw her pick up and shoot with that rifle, and the way she helped them bring the raiders and the AT-ST in, come out. "You were ... you were karking amazing."  
  
_You are karking amazing_ , is what he doesn't say, but it's implicit in the silence afterwards. Then, he feels self-conscious. It's as though he's that child that he didn't get to be for so long, and he might as well have called her "Wizard."   
  
""Thank you." Omera looks away, and he sees the tanned skin around her cheeks darken. "So are you."  
  
"I do what I need to." He replies, injecting as much pragmatism into his tone as he can.   
  
"No." This time, she looks back. He realizes that she's taking his hands into her own. "You are amazing. You did this, all for your child. You didn't have to." It's almost as though she's mirroring his words right back at him. "And you could have just taken the credits and left us. But you didn't. Instead, you brought Cara here with those credits. And she stayed. And she changed here, with us. We all did. And I think ... I'd like to think you did as well."  
  
He isn't sure how he can almost feel her warm hands in his own covered by his gauntlets, but gods he can. And he wants to. He squeezes his eyes shut, clenching his jaw in resolve. "Omera ..."  
  
"You are part of a Tribe, yes?" She says, leaning towards him. "They are your family?"  
  
"Yes." He says, without any hesitation.   
  
"We can be part of your family as well. No." She stops him before he can speak. "Not as Mandalorians. That is a different path, and I respect it but it's not for everyone. You already know that. That's why you left us after those few weeks. But we are your family." Her hands squeeze over his own. "We were made in blood and fire, but also in what we built. In what we founded here. What we protected. You said to me, I was brave for standing up for what I wanted. For staying when it would have been less dangerous, maybe, to leave. But you are more brave than I am. And I know you can be brave in this way too."  
  
There is a hard knot in the Mandalorian's throat. He looks down at their hands. He can smell her earthy scent, and the aquatic tang of the water she always spends her time in, the viridian smell of the vegetation of this world. He thinks about what that would be like, to feel the water on his skin, the sun on his face, his hands through her silken hair again. Treacherous thoughts ... and easily transitory. The laughter of his mother, and the protective arms of his own father -- those sounds and feelings -- that should have been permanent are now just ghosts. And he can't do that to this village. Not with what's coming after them. Not to Omera's family, or even Cara. And not Omera ... "I won't have you die for us." He says, as bluntly as possible. He needs to nip this in the bud.  
  
Omera shakes her head. "I'm not asking you to stay here, physically. Or permanently. We can handle ourselves."  
  
"It's too risky." He says, but he hasn't pushed off her hands.   
  
"You can end it." She replies. "I know, there is a way to make these attacks stop. I'm not saying that you can do it right now. Or tomorrow. Or weeks from now. Or even months. Or years. But you will end it. And ... we will be here." She takes one of her hands and places it on his helmet, perhaps where his cheek might be. "I will still be here."   
  
He can't face her. But slowly, she guides his visor back towards her.   
  
"The lives you've taken don't define you." She says. "I've told Cara that a few times. You know might think you know that, but it's one thing to _know_. It's a whole other thing to _feel_ , isn't it."  
  
They lean towards each other, not saying anything. Not having to say anything. He knows she's aware they can't always be here. She has faith. He wonders if it's misplaced. But he can't argue with her. He can't find the words to deny her. He rejected her once before, and he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it again. No, that isn't true. He knows that he _can't_ do it again.   
  
"Cara ..." He starts to say.  
  
"She and the others will be gone for a few hours." Omera says quietly, hopefully. "That's how long these 'patrols' generally take."  
  
He finds himself holding her other hand again. "She talked to me."  
  
"I know." Omera smiles. "She told me."  
  
He nods. Once.   
  
"You know," she says, a blush coming to her cheeks again. "You ... don't have to take your helmet off."  
  
It's like a flash grenade overwhelming his sensors. He blinks again. There is a pounding in his ears that has nothing to do with the after-effects of a concussive blast, at least not a physical one. She's in his arms now. Her firm softness against his angular metal. He leans down as she slowly dismantles him, piece by piece.  
  
"Yes." He rasps, as he feels her touch meeting the presence she's already left in his heart. "This is The Way."   
  



End file.
